For those asking, here is the poem I performed on the BBC World Service today:
The Special Relationship
It’s twenty-twelve, Olympic year, a Jubilee and all
so flap your union jacks and hang some bunting from your wall
crack out those tacky Royal mugs and croon God Save The Queen
let’s use our British Bluster as type of time Machine
to take us to the Glory years – the eighteenth century
when half the globe was Salmon pink and Blighty ruled the sea
when Boston was a suburb and DC just a dream
and every Yankee worth his salt was loyal to the team.
And maybe if you really squint and drink a quart of gin
around about the moment that the room begins to spin
you might make out Britannia unburdened by her sorrow
resplendent, young and nubile, but she’ll be gone tomorrow.
So spare a thought for poor old Dave, who’s pimping British blues:
Who will buy my shop-soiled goods, come on form a queue
and brown-nosing America on ghastly foreign trips
to shore up British interests in our “Special Relationship.”
So, we’ll give you the Beatles, in return you’ll give us … Britney
I’ll scratch your back if you … promise not to hit me
and this is Cheryl Cole … you don’t want it … no, fine, sure
ah, just what we’ve always wanted … another Holy war.
But there’s a thought to cheer you up as your pub becomes a diner:
the yanks aren’t any better-off, they’re sucking up to China.